


Multiclassing For Dummies

by howlikeagod



Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: Aromantic Asexual Riz Gukgak, Bisexual Fabian Aramais Seacaster, Bisexual Gorgug Thistlespring, Coming Out, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, everyone knows gorgug is the greatest wizard of the age, multiclassing as heavy-handed metaphor for bisexuality, that one's not relevant to the ship but it's relevant to ME, wendy cope orange poem dot html
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:33:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29545203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlikeagod/pseuds/howlikeagod
Summary: A story of friendship, bloodrush, poetry, oranges, and proficiency in calligrapher’s supplies.Or: When it comes to conventional wingmen, one’s own girlfriend would typically rank low on any list that didn’t also include a motorcycle.
Relationships: Fabian Aramais Seacaster/Gorgug Thistlespring, Zelda Donovan/Gorgug Thistlespring
Comments: 11
Kudos: 44





	Multiclassing For Dummies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmerish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmerish/gifts).



> happy birthday to my dear friend!! and hello fabian/gorgug community

“You,” Mr. Donovan says during the chillest family dinner Gorgug has ever attended at his girlfriend’s house, “seem like a boy with a big heart.”

_“Dad,”_ Zelda snaps. Her cheeks flare scarlet, and Gorgug is faced with the familiar certainty that something is flying over his head. He swallows the dried figs in his mouth and sits up a little straighter on the couch.

“What? What did I say, it is a compliment, yes? My dear,” Mr. Donovan turns his horned head to his wife, “this is a compliment?”

“This is a compliment!” Mrs. Donovan confirms. “Gorgug, sweet boy, did you take offense? If my husband has offended you, we will send you home with so much wine you will be swept away on the wave of it. Your mother did ask me about the hallucinogenic properties recently, now I remember. Take some when you go regardless.”

“Oh, um. Thanks.” Gorgug smiles awkwardly. He leans in toward Zelda, so close his nose brushes one of her horns, and whispers, “Should I be offended?”

“Forget it.” She shakes her head so violently she nearly takes his nose clean off.

“But I—Okay.”

Gorgug drops it when Zelda’s uncle leaps into the room to inform the rest of them that the hand-slaughtered boar on the spit in the backyard is ready for carving. Mrs. Donovan wields a carving knife like a scimitar, and he frankly doesn’t want to miss the show.

If Zelda wants to tell him, she’ll tell him. They’re both getting better about that.

Case in point: a year ago, Gorgug would have gotten deeply insecure as soon as he realized there was something Zelda wasn’t saying, then forgotten the facts but retained the general sense of unease. Now, he completely forgets _without_ a lingering sense of dread. That’s growth.

Zelda, for her part, keeps her cool all through dinner, kisses Gorgug goodbye outside the van—jug of spiced wine the weight of both his parents combined in his arms—and texts him a heart emoji and two sword emojis as he’s driving, as a little present to discover when he checks his crystal after getting home.

He replies with two hearts and an axe, sets the wine on the counter for his dad to find when he makes breakfast in the morning, and heads off to sleep.

In the morning, Zelda meets him outside the tree. She smiles when he waves down from his window. The sky is thick and grey, air heavy with a warm humidity as if it hasn’t yet received the memo that summer’s over. On his way out the door, mom slips the handle of a massive umbrella into his hand, which Gorgug fails to notice he’s holding until he reaches Zelda.

“My mom thinks it’s gonna rain,” he says.

“Ha, yeah, looks like it. Um.” Zelda tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. Gorgug notices that her headphones are nowhere to be seen. “Do you want to walk to school today anyway? Like, it’s fine if you wanna drive, I get it, you just said it’s going to rain, so, duh—”

“We can walk. That’s cool with me.”

A nerve of worry flashes like a lightning rod in Gorgug’s chest as he reaches for Zelda’s hand. She takes it. He holds back a sigh of relief.

“Cool.” Zelda’s hooves clip against the sidewalk as they start the familiar walk to Aguefort.

“Did you want to… listen to music, or…?” Gorgug broaches as the silence wears on, only broken by the occasional passing car and the rising noise from the Ballaster train station. He and Zelda never go anywhere silently—when they don’t talk, or even when they do, they always share the ambient sounds of some mutually-beloved metal album or other.

Is this because Zelda has been getting into DIY folk-screamo revival lately? Oh jeez, Gorgug shouldn’t have said what he said about lo-fi last week, she’s going to think he’s a judgemental asshole—

“I was actually hoping we could talk? About, um. About dinner with my parents last night. I wanted to apologize.”

“Oh. Okay, thanks.” Gorgug squeezes her hand reassuringly. “What for?”

Zelda blows out a breath that ruffles her bangs.

“This is so awkward. Like, okay, it’s going to sound _really_ weird to you, and we don’t have to talk about it more, but I just want to explain. So, you know how my family is, like, really big?”

Gorgug remembers the flashcards Ayda helped him make to keep track of everyone who lives in Zelda’s house, both permanently and season-to-season. “Yes.”

“Not everyone in my family is related to me, like aunts and uncles and stuff by marriage. But I have… more aunts and uncles and stuff than most people do. And other relatives who aren’t _officially_ aunts or uncles or whatever. If that makes sense.” Zelda glances up at him from the corner of her eye.

Gorgug hums thoughtfully. He hears a sound that could be traffic over the bridge or distant thunder. Or a dragon. He hopes it’s not a dragon.

“I’m lost,” he admits.

“Okay, like, my uncle Ari isn’t related to my mom or my dad. And it’s—it’d be really gross if he were, because he’s, like, not my _other_ dad because only my mom and my dad wanted to be parents, but he’s kind of. There. With them.”

“Oh. Oh!” Gorgug’s brain lights up with the satisfying, more-familiar-every-day thrill of _getting it._ “That’s cool. Was your dad mad that I don’t talk to Ari as much as I talk to him and your mom?”

“No, that’s not—What he said was, was dumb. Forget it. We can listen to music now.” Zelda reaches into her hoodie pocket and starts untangling her earbud cords with a nervous energy Gorgug rarely sees anymore when it’s just the two of them.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to talk,” Gorgug says quietly, “but I want to understand.”

Zelda pauses. She winds a cord around her finger once, unwinds it, winds it again.

“God, my dad is so _embarrassing._ ” Zelda huffs. “My parents know that I only want to date you, and they _say_ they’re supportive, but they’re still, like, super weird about it. Nobody in my family is monogamous. They think it’s a phase.”

“Huh. Well…” Gorgug thinks for a few seconds. He’s pretty sure his parents sang a song to him once about diverse relationship structures, but it was full of slant rhymes that made it hard to remember. “Thank you for telling me,” he finally lands on, always a safe and polite response.

“Thanks for being chill about it,” Zelda mumbles. She squeezes his hand tight. “I can’t promise my dad will stop being, like, the nosiest guy alive, but I don’t think he’ll try to meddle with our relationship anymore.”

Gorgug nods. They keep walking, tension eased, as light raindrops start to spatter the sidewalk. Gorgug opens the umbrella and Zelda tucks herself under his arm so they both fit beneath it.

“Out of curiosity, just to clarify,” Gorgug hums, hoping to be subtle about how confused he still is, “when you say _meddle with our relationship…”_

“Oh. God. Fuck, it’s—It didn’t even bother you, I shouldn’t have brought it up—”

Gorgug rubs Zelda’s arm and waits patiently.

“—he was trying to like, ask if you’re—” she trails off again.

“I didn’t, um. Catch that?”

“He was hoping you were dating somebody else! In. In addition to me. Haha.” Zelda lets out her nervous, self-effacing laugh.

“Oh. Got it.” Gorgug fiddles a tusk against his upper lip. “To be clear. So you know you have nothing to worry about. I am not.”

Zelda laughs again, a real one this time.

“I know that, Gorgug. And that’s not even, like, that wouldn’t be a problem.” She shrugs, half smiling, and it’s like the sun peering through a thin layer of rain clouds. “Honestly, if you wanted to date another person too, that would be, um. Not that I’m asking you to! But it would make it, like, _super_ way easier for me if I could tell my parents I’m technically in a polycule. But it’s whatever. Seriously.”

“Is it? Do you need me to date somebody else? I could probably find somebody to pretend to date. I bet Fig would disguise herself as my girlfriend—not you, a different girlfriend. But how would she know who to disguise herself as if my other girlfriend doesn’t exist?” Gorgug muses.

Zelda stops him with a comforting pat against his sternum.

“Sweetie, it’s okay. I mean it. I’m used to being, like, the odd one out at home or whatever.”

Gorgug nods again. That’s something they have in common. As the rain falls harder, Gorgug relishes the umbrella, the warm presence of Zelda beside him, and the comfort of understanding.

* * *

_SIRE. WE ARE LEAVING MORDRED MANOR FOR THE NIGHT?_

“Yes, Hangman.” Fabian rubs his eye and wraps his sheet around his shoulders. The early November air has taken on a chill since this afternoon, when Fabian retreated inside after an agonizing fifteen minutes watching Ragh try and fail to teach Zayn how to play bloodrush for the eighth time. He hops off the top step of the Manor’s porch and lands astride the bike.

_YOU SHOULD OFFER A RIDE TO THE GREAT WIZARD._

Fabian blinks.

“Adaine lives here,” he says. “Where would we give her a ride to?”

_NOT THAT GREAT WIZARD, SIRE._

“Oh, Hangman, I—Uh, that’s not, Aelwyn and I aren’t—That was, like, it lasted like a week this summer—We _talked_ about this, Hangman—and she lives here _too,_ so—”

_NO, I’M—THIS IS… THIS IS MY BAD. I AM NOT REFERRING TO EITHER OF THE ABERNANT SISTERS. I MEAN THE GREATEST WIZARD OF THIS GENERATION, GORGUG THISTLESPRING, WHO DRAGGED ME BACK FROM THE VERY GATES OF OBLIVION. YOU KNOW. THAT WIZARD._

“Oh!” Fabian chuckles at the memory of Adaine’s face every time someone calls Gorgug a prodigious wizard and pats the Hangman’s rumbling, metal face fondly. “I don’t think he needs a ride tonight. He drove The Ball here in the van.”

_I HATE THE VAN._

“I know, Hangman. I know.”

As a boy and his dog—sorry, motorcycle—speed off into the night, Fabian reads nothing more into the Hangman’s infernal tone than his usual jealous hostility toward the Hangvan. Improved Wisdom score or not, his insight has never been stellar.

Then, it happens again.

A few days later, after bloodrush practice, the Hangman’s voice rumbles through Fabian’s mind.

_SIRE. WHILE YOU WERE DEMONSTRATING YOUR INCREDIBLE BLOODRUSH PROWESS, I SCOURED THE PARKING LOT. THE VAN IS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND._

“Yes, I think Gorgug walked to school today. He does that sometimes, for _whatever_ reason.”

_NOW IS OUR CHANCE, SIRE._

“Our… chance to do what?” Fabian asks. He adjusts the strap of his backpack and lays a hand on his sword. Are they fighting someone? Did he forget about a fight?

_TO OFFER THE GREAT WIZARD A RIDE HOME. WITH THE TWO OF YOU TOGETHER ASTRIDE MY SEAT, THERE IS NOTHING YOU COULD NOT ACCOMPLISH._

“Yes, Gorgug and I do make a pretty great team,” Fabian brags. “Did I tell you about the time we climbed that cliff in the Nightmare Forest? We were, like, completely in sync. It was incredible.”

_YES, SIRE! THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!_

“But I’m hanging out with Riz tonight, you know that.”

The Hangman revs with discontent. Fabian huffs indulgently.

“Be nice to The Ball, Hangman, he’s not going anywhere anytime soon, alright?”

_YOUR BALL IS NOT THE ISSUE. I HAVE MADE MY PEACE WITH HIM._

“Okay, cool. Good.” Fabian rolls his shoulders. “Then, like, what’s your beef, Hangman?”

_I HAVE NO BEEF, SIRE._

There is a distinctly mournful tone to the bike’s infernal growling. Fabian furrows his brow.

“Nooo, don’t be like that. You can tell me.” He folds his elbows on the handlebars and leans down to peer, upside down, into the Hangman’s flaming eyeholes.

_I THOUGHT WE WERE WORKING TOGETHER TO BE VERY IMPRESSIVE. I WANT TO BE HELPFUL._

“We’re always very impressive! What are you talking about? Of course you are. Of _course!_ Remember all those times I’ve _Teen Wolf_ ed onto you in the heat of battle? Or that thing with the half-pipe? Hangman, you’re the best bike a boy could ask for, and don’t you ever doubt yourself again, alright?”

The engine beneath him rumbles affectionately.

_THANK YOU, SIRE._

“You’re welcome. Now, to The Ball’s office! We have work to save him from.”

_AND YOU’RE SURE YOU DON’T WANT TO INVITE THE MASTER WIZARD, GORGUG THISTLESPRING?_

“Oh. Like—I don’t know, maybe? I don’t.” Fabian casts a look around the parking lot. He thinks he remembers Gorgug finishing up his after-practice shower quickly today. A couple other members of the team are still chatting by the door of the school, but he doesn’t spot any distinctive white streaks in any soft, thick mops of shiny black hair, nor any broad shoulders on a tall frame standing far straighter than the shy, lanky boy Fabian punched in the gut on his first day of school.

Aguefort Adventuring Academy seems acutely Gorgug-less, and worse off for it, as any place without Gorgug is. Fabian shakes away _that_ weird thought, ears burning. “I don’t see him. He probably went home already.”

_A PITY. WE WON’T MISS OUR SHOT NEXT TIME, I SWEAR IT!_

“Sure,” Fabian agrees distractedly. Distracted by what? Nothing, of course. Nothing.

The ride from school to Riz’s office passes in a familiar blur. Fabian hops off the Hangman with a mental command to _stay close, but run over a trash can or two if you’re bored,_ and rings up the offices of Riz Gukgak, Private Eye.

“The Ball! It’s me,” Fabian hollers effusively into the speaker. There is a long pause, as of a goblin untangling himself from a web of red string to make his way across the difficult terrain of his office, and then a buzz as the door unlocks.

Riz insists the building has “character,” but personally Fabian thinks it’s a bit of a dump. The marble stairs are visibly worn, the whole place smells like a musty imitation of the old wood that makes up Seacaster Manor, and the door to The Ball’s office was effortlessly easy for Gorgug to break down that one time.

…the memory flashes across Fabian’s mind, how his cheeks warmed a little, definitely from the embarrassment of not being able to break it down himself. Definitely that.

Back in the present, Fabian delivers the secret knock The Ball made them all learn. The door opens to reveal a smiling Riz Gukgak.

“Hey, man,” Riz greets, “watch your step. I gotta finish something up and then we can go, it’ll take two seconds.”

Fabian deftly weaves between the thumb tacks and loose paper scattered across the floor. The Ball must be deep in it—he’s usually so meticulous about evidence. Fabian catches sight of the picture tacked to the center of the largest board and shudders: Riz’s own chest, bare and clinical like an autopsy photo, with two short words burnt and blistering in the shape of what was once nothing more than an extremely ill-thought-out tattoo.

Technically Fabian’s fault, if you think about it. Fabian tries not to think about it.

“Take your time, no rush,” he insists flippantly, throwing himself into a casual sprawl over the couch where Riz sleeps on most of the occasions he actually sleeps. Fabian rubs a hand over the back of his neck. He feels strangely warmed by the knowledge he has of The Ball, even and especially of his bad habits. He knows as much about each of the Bad Kids as he’s ever known about another person. And they know him, the real him, underneath the airs he puts on. Fewer, now, but still more than none.

It turns out growing up a rich, homeschooled only child doesn’t prepare one for friend-making without a few blunders. His friends have taken each in stride with admirable grace.

None more so than The Ball—who currently has three thumbtacks held between his teeth and is scribbling furiously on a series of index cards. Fabian watches with curiosity and mild exasperation—“two seconds,” _sure,_ Riz—as he pins the notes next to pictures of his own tattoos, blurry crystal snapshots of the inky blot that spread over the sky last summer, and—Fabian cocks his head at this one—a still from a recent Fig and the Cig Figs charity stream.

Riz’s hands work fast and his brain works faster. Fabian always feels a little useless at times like this, especially when Adaine is there too, but he’s working past the reflexive urge to tune out and dismiss the whole operation to avoid embarrassing himself when confronted with something he doesn’t immediately excel at.

He can’t help but think about Gorgug again. Gorgug, who’s spent the better part of his life convinced—and being told, in a thousand little ways Fabian is not totally innocent of himself—that he’s stupid, but never let that stop him from paying attention, from _trying,_ and from putting the clues together in his own way and on his own time. Slowly, sometimes, but reliably.

God, Gorgug’s so reliable, and stable, and kind, and even when things piss him off he never lets himself lapse into cruelty, and he’s creative, and dedicated, and strong, and tall, and handsome—

Fabian swallows, resisting the urge to punch _himself_ in the back of the head real hard. Of course Gorgug is… good-looking. All the Bad Kids are hot as shit. It’s just, like, a fact about them. The Ball, for example, is right in front of him, and ever since the Nightmare Forest Fabian has been categorically unable to ignore the fact that Riz is growing into a proper suave, secret agent type. A real heartbreaker waiting to happen, if he wanted. Not that he _wants,_ which is a thing The Ball is sensitive about and tentatively working through understanding about himself, so Fabian would never, _ever_ say it’s a _shame_ that Riz doesn’t plan to let anyone run their hands through his hair or kiss him right below the thin, rosemary-green curve of his earlobe—just that, like, somebody would be lucky to, in a world where that might happen. But it’s fine that it won’t.

Gorgug probably lets Zelda do that. Play with his hair, kiss his jaw, watch the pine green landscape of his face dip into dimples when he smiles. Fabian hopes she’s making good use of the privilege—then scowls at how invested in the thought he can feel himself becoming.

“What’s wrong?” Riz’s voice cuts in. Fabian whips his head up, startled, to find Riz staring at him with a furrowed brow.

“Nothing.”

“You’re making a face.”

“ _Nothing,_ The Ball! You’re just… taking a while. What are you doing, anyway?”

“Oh. Sorry.” Riz puffs out a long breath and scrapes a palm over his face. “I keep thinking I’ve got it, and then the pattern—changes? I think? It’s hard to explain. I’m still not good at talking about it without actually _saying…_ you know.”

“Yeah.” Fabian nods, lips pursed. “You deserve a break.”

Riz bristles slightly. “I’ve been working on this for _months,_ Fabian, and all I have is—” He gestures emphatically at what is, to Fabian, indistinguishable from any of his other cases. “I don’t—”

“Fine, then _I_ deserve a break. You told me two seconds, and I won’t lie, I totally zoned out there for a minute, but I’m _pretty_ sure it’s been more seconds than that.” Fabian stands and brandishes his sheet threateningly. “Don’t make me swaddle you, The Ball.”

“No!” Riz laughs. He ducks behind his rolling board as Fabian advances. There is a brief scuffle wherein Riz nails an acrobatics check to flip right over the spinning corkboard, before Fabian’s sheet catches him around the torso in midair. The Ball drops and Fabian leaps to grab him. They hit the ground together, The Ball held tight against Fabian’s chest like, well, like a bloodrush ball, captured and kept in a last-ditch lunge for the endzone.

“Can we _go_ now?” Fabian huffs, flat on his back. He landed on a sharpie The Ball must have dropped on the floor, can feel it digging into the base of his spine, and hopes it wasn’t uncapped. Riz extricates a hand from the tangle and flicks him on the forehead. “Ow.”

* * *

Gorgug’s slowing down again.

Fig sighs. His sense of rhythm is _great_ when he really gets in the zone, otherwise he wouldn’t be the drummer for objectively the best band in the Great Wheel, duh. But the drumming zone isn’t the only zone Gorgug zones out to. When something’s bothering him, he’ll get in his head until his beats are half a second late and Fig is practically playing solo.

Ayda is right when she says that Gorgug’s mind is perfectly and completely beautiful. Fig just wishes he wouldn’t hang out there quite so much when they’re trying to practice.

“Gorgug.” Fig takes her foot off her reverb pedal and turns around. “Let me know if this is, like, too nosy of me or anything, but are you doing okay?”

“Huh?” Gorgug blinks at her sleepily. He lets his hand finish its trajectory toward a final beat before crossing his drumsticks in his lap self-consciously.

“You’re way off. It’s cool if you want to skip the rest of practice, since it’s just us today, but if you want to talk about anything, I’m here, you know?” Fig tugs on her braid.

Gorgug nods. He pulls his bottom lip between his tusks, the way he does when he’s thinking, and says, “Can I ask kind of a—feel free to tell me no, but can I ask you something personal?”

“Sure,” Fig replies. “I know I’m like, really intimidating and I don’t usually wear my heart on my sleeve, but just this once I can make an exception.” The insistence is mostly a running bit at this point, but Fig adds a wink anyway to show him she’s joking.

Gorgug gives a nervous half-smile in response. He shifts awkwardly in his seat, sets his drumsticks down, and asks, “How’d you know you were bi?”

“Oh. Well, um,” Fig hums, surprised by the question but _determined_ to foster a safe and welcoming space. She’s planning to start job-shadowing Jawbone, whether he wants her to or not, and this seems like a great opportunity to practice for her future as Spyre’s premiere rock star-adventurer-therapist. “It wasn’t some, like, epiphany or anything. There wasn’t just one thing that made me realize.”

She sets her guitar down and sits, cross-legged, in front of the kit with her back against the bass drum. She pats the floor beside her. Gorgug stands to shuffle around the side of the drum kit. Fig smiles at him when he sits down.

“So you’ve known for a long time?” he asks softly.

“Kind of. It’s like, you know how I used to be this majorly preppy, flier-on-the-cheer-squad, pink dress, future-prom-queen elf girl in middle school?”

“I didn’t know you then, but you’ve talked about it, yeah.”

“That, like, wasn’t really me, even when it was.” Fig rolls her magical pick between her fingers like a coin trick. “But when my horns came in and I started being like, _Fuck you!_ to everything, I thought _that_ was a performance. Rebellion was like, how can I be the most opposite version of myself to show everyone how pissed off I am? I thought I was acting with all the punk stuff, but really, I’d been acting every day before that and I even had myself fooled.”

“And that’s like being bisexual?”

Even sitting down, slouching the way he does, Gorgug is well over a head taller than Fig. It means the divot of his shoulder is in the perfect position to lean her head on. She tucks herself against him, careful, as always, of the horns.

“I mean, yeah, because when I started dying my hair and wearing black, all my friends were like, _Ew, gross,_ even though they weren’t the ones I was trying to piss off. They were barely okay with the tiefling thing, but as soon as I started talking about it, or dressing different, or actually admited to liking the music I’d had on my crystal the whole time, they fucking ditched me. So I leaned into it harder, and the more I, like, followed that path, the more I found stuff that had been there all along.” Fig shrugs. “I got really good at following my impulses. That was just another one I found and went, alright, fuck yeah, let’s see where this goes! Does that make sense?”

“Hm.” Gorgug hums. Fig hears it aloud and feels it rumble through his chest against her temple, a heavy bass-note. “Remember when I kissed Ragh?”

“Yeah, I do,” Fig laughs.

“That was kind of an impulse.”

Fig twists her head to look up at Gorgug. His brow is furrowed, eyes steady on some far-away thought.

“Do you think you have a crush on Ragh?”

Gorgug tilts his head, frowning thoughtfully.

“I think… I mean, if I do, I think I missed my window, right? He graduated.”

“Yeah.” Fig blows out a heavy breath. “I know a thing or two about going after older men. Doesn’t work.”

“Mhm.”

“But do you—I know it’s not, like, really my business,” Fig sits up so she can face Gorgug directly, “but if you think you’re bi, or if you’re questioning some things, or whatever, you know, it’s okay not to be sure. If you even want a word for it. You don’t have to fit yourself in any box, but the word is there and it’s, like, really big and kind of… open and versatile. There’s a lot of freedom inside it, is what I mean. There’s room for you.”

A soft smile spreads over Gorgug’s face, slow as a sunrise.

“It’s your business,” he says. “You’re one of my best friends. If you want to hear about it, of course it’s your business.”

“Well, I do.” Fig inserts as much sass into the affirmation as she can.

“Okay.” Gorgug sits with it for a moment, and Fig lets him. Finally, he opens his mouth, takes a breath, and says, “I’m bi.”

Fig leaps to her feet, whooping. “Hell _yes!_ Bi fuckin’ _rights!”_

“Bi rights,” Gorgug echoes gently.

“You know, it makes sense.” Fig says as she takes Gorgug’s hand and pretends to haul him up. “Of course you and I are both bi. I should have known, it’s so freaking obvious.”

“What…” He runs a hand through his hair, tossing the streak of white out of his eyes as he stands. “What exactly is obvious?”

Fig smirks.

“We multiclassed. How bisexual is that?”

Gorgug drops his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Fig cackles until she practically topples over. Gorgug puts a steadying hand on her arm.

Something occurs to Fig. She gasps. “Am I the first person you’ve told?”

“Oh. Yeah, I guess you are.” Gorgug blinks. “Do you think I should tell Zelda?”

“You don’t have to tell fucking _anybody,_ and don’t let anyone tell you different.” Fig pokes him in the chest. “But also, you can tell anyone you want.”

“I think I should tell Zelda. Oh. Wait. Woah!” Gorgug gets the funny look on his face that happens when he figures something out, like he can’t quite believe it actually happened.

“What?”

“I think,” Gorgug says slowly, “I just solved a different problem.”

* * *

“Not _now,_ Hangman!” Fabian snaps out of nowhere.

“Are you and your bike fighting?” Riz asks as they pull into the parking lot of Basrar’s.

Fabian grumbles noncommittally as the two of them disembark. “He’s being really _weird.”_

“SIRE,” the Hangman growls aloud, “MAY I HAVE A MOMENT ALONE WITH THE BALL?”

“You want to _what?”_ Fabian’s jaw hangs open. He looks between Riz and the motorcycle.

“You’re not gonna try to run me over or something, right?” Riz asks. He shuffles a few feet away from the Hangman, just in case.

“I WOULD NEVER DISAPPOINT MY MASTER IN SUCH A WAY. I HAVE RESIGNED MYSELF TO YOUR CONTINUED PRESENCE.”

“Fine.” Riz shrugs at Fabian, just as baffled but definitely more amused. “Want to go get us a table? I’ll be in in a minute, I guess.”

“I… Okay,” Fabian agrees weakly, throwing his hands in the air in a clear _This might as well happen_ gesture.

“So,” Riz says awkwardly once the door jingles shut behind Fabian. “What’s up, Hangman?”

“LISTEN. CAN I LEVEL WITH YOU, BALL?”

“Uh, sure?”

“I HAVE BEEN TRYING TO HELP MY MASTER WIN THE AFFECTIONS OF THE GREATEST WIZARD OF THE AGE, BUT HE IS BEING… WEIRD ABOUT IT.”

“The—” Riz cocks his head. _“What?”_

“I KNEW YOU WOULD AGREE. IT _IS_ STRANGE HOW HE HAS REBUFFED MY ATTEMPTS TO ASSIST HIM IN THIS MATTER. BALL, TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE. YOU MUST FIND OUT HOW TO CONVINCE HIM TO WOO GORGUG THISTLESPRING.”

“What— _What?”_ Riz repeats. He shakes his head so hard his ears flap, not in negation but sheer bafflement, like rattling something loose will make this all make sense.

“WHO UPON THIS ENTIRE BLASTED PLANE OF EXISTENCE COULD BE WORTHIER OF MY MASTER’S AFFECTIONS?”

“I… don’t know how to respond to that.” Riz blinks. “Does Fabian have a, a _crush_ on Gorgug?” He lowers his voice at the word _crush._ Riz knows too well how speaking the name of a thing can bring it down on your head, and he’d like to keep himself uncrushed for the moment.

“MY MASTER AND THE MAGE HAVE SHARED MUCH. I AM NO EXPERT IN MATTERS OF THE HEART, BUT I KNOW WHEN HE IS HAPPY. AND I KNOW HE TRUSTS YOUR COUNSEL.”

Riz rubs a hand over his forehead. He can feel the first strings of a project tying themselves together in his brain. _We_ can’t _treat playing wingmen with a motorcycle as a case,_ he admonishes himself.

“Okay, I’ll talk to him, I guess,” he agrees. The bike revs joyfully.

“EXCELLENT, BALL. NOW GO!”

“I’m going!”

“FASTER!”

“Okay!” Riz throws the door to the ice cream shop open as the devil motorcycle skids closer as if to kick him through it.

He slams the door shut. The bell at the top jingles frantically with the force, not that Riz has a ton of force to put into it to begin with.

“Please don’t break my door!” Basrar pleads cheerfully from behind the counter. Riz gives him a nervous, awkward salute in acknowledgement that he immediately regrets.

Motivated by the sheer weight of self-awareness, Riz stealths across the shop until he finds the table Fabian’s staked out. There is already a strawberry milkshake in front of him, and coffee waiting before the opposite seat.

“Hey, thanks,” Riz says as he pops into view. Fabian jumps half a foot in the air.

“The _Ball.”_

“Sorry.” Riz grins, not sorry at all. “Did you order food yet?”

“No, I, uh, wanted to wait for you, but I was pretty confident about the coffee, so.” He gestures. “What did—Was it, is the Hangman mad at me or, or something?”

Riz pauses in the middle of tearing open a sugar packet.

“No,” he says slowly. “ _Definitely_ not mad at you.”

“Okay, good. I’m not sure if he _can_ get mad at me, but it’s still like, _whew._ ” Fabian chuckles and relaxes slightly against the booth. “What _did_ he want, then?”

Riz drums his claws against the tabletop. “Uhh…”

Fabian’s eye widens.

“The Ball, come on. The _Ball._ You have to tell me.” Fabian leans halfway over the table, nearly knocking over his own milkshake. “No way is _my_ bike telling _you_ secrets!”

“It’s not… a secret. I just don’t really know how to—” Riz scratches fingers through his hair until he can feel it standing practically upright. He really misses his hat sometimes.

“We tell each other everything.” Fabian pouts with that face he makes when a friend isn’t giving him what he wants, like the world’s haughtiest toddler.

Riz tilts his head. “You tell me everything?”

“Well, uhh. Like,” he blusters, “most things, probably. I don’t know, what haven’t I told you?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Riz points out, “since you haven’t told me.” He takes a long sip of his coffee as Fabian splutters. He isn’t sure when this turned into an interrogation, but Riz likes being on this end of it better than the alternative, if he had to pick.

“That’s not the _point,”_ Fabian whines, finally latching onto a complete sentence. “What did the Hangman tell you?”

Riz chews the inside of his cheek. “It was. About. Gorgug?”

Fabian’s face cycles through several emotions with startling swiftness. He drops his head into his hands and groans.

_“This_ again?”

“What again?” Riz asks.

“I don’t _know!”_ Fabian lifts his head and shakes it frantically at Riz. “The Hangman won’t stop telling me I need to give Gorgug a ride home or invite him to hang out with us. He’s, like, obsessed ever since Gorgug brought him back from the dead or whatever.”

“And you… don’t want to hang out with Gorgug?”

Riz clicks his nails against the side of his mug, a quick _tap-tap-tap-tap_ that grounds him as Fabian’s face melts into something to the west of surprised and east of nervous. Why’d the evil motorcycle have to ask _Riz_ to do this, of all people? He has his expertises, and talking about crushes is _not_ one of them, thank you very much.

“Well, uh, of _course_ I—Gorgug’s, like, one of my best friends, and, _hoot growl!_ You know, go Owlbears, and, uhh, he’s one of the Bad Boys, of course! He wasn’t around after practice, or he’d be here with us right now! If—if that would have been alright with you, I know I didn’t ask. So it’s not, I mean, it’s not like I _don’t_ want to hang out with Gorgug, or, or give him rides on the Hangman, or like, hug him again—Uhh.”

Fabian looks a little desperate, like he’s given away something he hadn’t meant to.

“Uh huh.” Riz sips his coffee.

“So—look, The Ball, you have to understand—Uh, ha! I don’t—”

“You boys look ready to order!” Basrar appears in a whirlwind of sweet-smelling frost.

After a flicker of relief, Fabian immediately zips himself back up into the perfectly affected image of a cool jock. Riz bites back a frown. It’s not Basrar’s fault, but he can’t help but feel that the interruption has allowed a lead to slip right through his fingers.

_Is it not a bit strange that you have to make yourself think of your friends’ romantic lives as a case in order to relate to them, Riz Gukgak?_ A voice that died in Sylvaire wriggles coldly into his brain. _You always care for the mystery more than the person._

_Fuck off,_ Riz thinks, and mentally adds, _Talk to Jawbone_ to his weekend plans.

They order, Riz makes sure he gets a bigger side of onion rings than he would eat on his own because Fabian always pretends he doesn’t want any and then steals half of them, and the space above the table goes quiet. Basrar’s is moderately busy for a Wednesday evening in November—there is no shortage of noise around them, but normally Riz and Fabian would be arguing about something stupid or knee-deep in a bit by now. Instead, Fabian’s milkshake dwindles as he takes sips without looking at Riz. He twiddles his thumbs and looks off to the side, a half-second from faux-casual whistling.

“You were saying?” Riz prompts eventually.

Fabian’s face shifts in that split-second way he has, going from blank to startled and vaguely guilty in the time it takes Riz to clock it.

“There was, I mean, you remember, uh, the Nightmare Forest, right?”

Riz gapes.

“Yeah, Fabian,” he says after a beat. “I remember the Nightmare Forest.”

“Right, of course you do, what am I—Look, near the, after all the, um, nightmares and, and stuff, uh, I ran into Gorgug. And I was, was so excited to see him that I just ran right up and hugged him. Out of _nowhere._ ” Fabian runs a hand over his face. “It was. Actually. Really nice.”

“Yeah, Gorgug gives great hugs.” Riz nods.

Fabian’s eye practically pops out of his head.

“You’ve—?” He gestures expansively and meaninglessly.

“Dude, we hug all the time.” Riz tilts his head. Fabian gets himself under control, nodding, a quiet _Right, yeah, of course_ under his breath. “You… don’t like hugs?”

“No!” Fabian says defensively. “I have no problem with hugs, The Ball. I’m just not, ah, used to initiating them. It’s—Hm.”

“What?” Riz sips his coffee before it goes cold.

“Maybe toxic masculinity isn’t dead after all.” Fabian looks vaguely haunted by the thought. Riz snorts so hard he chokes on a mouthful of lukewarm coffee and spends half a minute coughing it out.

“Oh no, do I need to call someone?” Basrar’s voice comes with the arrival of their food as Riz valiantly attempts not to aspirate bean juice.

“It’s fine, he has the Healer feat,” Fabian says with a hearty slap to Riz’s back.

“That wouldn’t,” Riz finds the breath to interject, “help _me.”_

“There. You’re talking, so you’re not dying.” Fabian rubs a hand soothingly between Riz’s shoulderblades anyway, at odds with the flippancy of his words.

Basrar leaves them their food with a chuckle at the antics of young heroes. Riz starts breathing again and immediately horks down an entire reuben sandwich. Fabian picks slowly at his salad, a melancholy distance in his eye.

“Okay,” Riz says as he wipes his mouth and pushes the basket of onion rings toward the middle of the table, “keep talking.”

“What?” Fabian shifts uncomfortably.

“Hugging Gorgug. Toxic masculinity. How weird you’ve been acting. Put the clues together for me, man, or I’ll do it myself,” Riz threatens. Out the window over Fabian’s shoulder, the Hangman does impatient donuts in the parking lot.

Fabian sighs. “That might be easier. If you. Uh.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “If you solved the case for me. Because I’m not there yet myself.”

Riz blows out a long breath through tight lips. He eats an onion ring. Fabian watches him nervously.

“Okay, let’s go through the facts. Correct me if I’m wrong,” Riz begins, “but this started in the Nightmare Forest?”

“Well,” Fabian hums. “I think… maybe Leviathan?” He shoves two onion rings in his mouth with an air of panic, like he’s made a dangerous confession and needs to avoid another.

“Okay. When on Leviathan?”

“After…” Fabian swallows. “You know. After.”

“Got it. But before we went to Fallinel and you did your—?” Riz swings his arms over his head in what’s probably an offensive mimicry of Fabian’s sheet dance. Fabian snorts.

“Yes, when I was… not doing the best. He—” Fabian pushes hair out of his face, “kept, um, planting swords in front of me, you remember that? And told me to buck up, and it—that wasn’t the part that. Was different. Because everyone was sort of trying to get me back on my feet in that way, but Gorgug _kept_ trying and he—The Ball—”

Fabian opens and closes his mouth. His face is open, his expression tender. He looks earnest and embarrassed by his own earnestness. Riz assumes the statement will end with a reminder of how Gorgug saved the Hangman, bringing Fabian’s beloved bike-slash-hellhound back from realms beyond, but what Fabian actually says, with a creak in his voice, is:

“He gave me an _orange.”_

Riz blinks.

“Oh. That’s a big deal for pirates, huh?”

Fabian nods. He drops his head again and moans, quietly, “I don’t know what to _do_ with that.”

“Well, what do you… Yeah, okay, what do you _want_ to do about it?”

“Hug him again,” Fabian admits, mumbling. “Or—But, Zelda, you know.”

_“Oh.”_ Yes, Riz is no expert, but he’s insightful, and not as socially inept as he once was, and he knows Fabian, maybe better than anyone. So that’s confirmation, then. Even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet.

“Yeah, so.” Fabian lifts his face and sniffles once before stowing his vulnerability away entirely.

“That’s a lot, man. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it, The Ball. It’s—not the first time, sometimes you can’t have what you want, it’s like. Normal.” Fabian mournfully eats another onion ring.

“I’ve never heard you say _that_ before.”

The corner of Fabian’s mouth twitches.

“I’m a new man, Riz.” He casts Faerie Fire over their table. His milkshake and Riz’s coffee light up with a vibrant array of pink, purple, and blue light. Riz picks up the mug and inspects it with a smile.

“A little on the nose, don’t you think?” he says fondly. The light shimmers over the ceramic, and Riz knows instinctively that this is the closest Fabian is going to come to saying the words outright, at least for now. He can relate to that.

“Whatever.” Fabian drops concentration on the spell self-consciously. “It’s, like, barely a thing. Just. Now you know, I guess. Now _I_ know. So. Thanks.”

“Any time.” Riz’s ears twitch as he remembers something. “Um. But maybe tell the Hangman not to get mad at me.”

“Mad at you?”

“Yeah, uh, he told me to try to convince you to… _woo_ Gorgug. And I think he might run me over if you don’t.”

“Fuck,” Fabian mutters. “Now I have to break my bike’s heart too.”

* * *

Fantasy FaceTime starts ringing. Gorgug adjusts his hair so it falls over one eye, pushes it out of his face, then combs his fingers through so it falls over the other eye. He starts wondering if he should tie it back instead when the call picks up.

“Hey, Gorgug,” Zelda greets. Her crystal is so close to her face that all he sees is one eye and the side of her nose, but that warm honey-brown, goat-pupiled eye is crinkled in a smile. “What’s up?”

“Hi, Zelda. Not much, I just thought I’d call you, and, uh. How are you?” Gorgug pushes hair out of his face again. He tilts his body so the wrinkled letter jacket thrown over his messy desk isn’t in the frame.

“I’m good. I thought you had, like, bloodrush and then band practice tonight? You never call me on Wednesdays.”

“Band practice wrapped up early,” he explains. “That’s, um, actually a great segue into what I wanted to talk about. Unless you have something you want to talk about.”

“I—you…” Zelda says slowly, “you called me? I mean, um, I guess my day has been good?”

“Cool, cool.” He tugs the strings of his hoodie simply to have something to do with his free hand.

“What did you want to talk about?” Zelda asks after an agonizing pause.

Gorgug lets out a heavy breath.

“I’m bisexual.”

“Oh! That’s great, Gorgug. Thank you for, for telling me!” Zelda pulls the phone back a bit. Gorgug can see her whole face like this, small and sweetly earnest. She tucks a lock of hair behind one of her horns and beams at him.

“Yeah. Um. Thanks! For, you know, being cool.” Gorgug shrugs.

“Of course. Hey, listen, _of course._ I know I don’t, like, always talk about my feelings super well, ‘cause I, like, stumble over words and—whatever.” She laughs pointedly at herself. Gorgug finds himself smiling. “But you can always tell me important stuff. And I like knowing things about you, because you’re important to me and I love you.”

“I love you too,” Gorgug says. “And I feel the same way about you. So. Just so you know.”

“I do know.” Zelda smiles. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “And, kind of on that note, and I’m just checking in.”

“What’s up?”

“Do your parents. Still want you to,” his voice rises an octave, words running together as they leave his mouth in a desperate bid to escape Gorgug’s own awkwardness, “beinapolycule?”


End file.
